


Propitious

by Hope



Category: Firefly, Serenity (2005)
Genre: Ficlet, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-11-09
Updated: 2005-11-09
Packaged: 2017-10-03 10:34:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hope/pseuds/Hope
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><b>propitious</b> \pruh-PISH-uhs\, <i>adjective</i>:<br/>1. Presenting favorable circumstances or conditions.<br/>2. Favorably inclined; gracious; benevolent.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Propitious

Jayne figures they do things differently on the core planets, and taking the Doc into that hospital had been like dunking him in a vat of it; the gorram stupid core sensibilities left coating his skin.

He doesn't mean what Jayne thinks he means.

His face hangs all close to Jayne's as his fingers press cooly against the bruise left by Mal's wrench, and Jayne can see the gleam in the curve of his lip, the pink fleshiness where his tongue presses against the back of his teeth as he's concentrating, see where the skin folds round and gives a little as the corner of the Doc's mouth tips up a little bit. He closes his eyes and hisses breath in through his teeth when the fingers above his eye press a little sharper.

"Sorry," the Doc says, but Jayne's eyes are closed now, still a little dizzy, still a little wrung out, that somewhat familiar (but all the more gutting for how it came on him somewhat unexpected this time) feeling of his own mortality kicking in and ripping out his insides, as it tends to do. He sinks back, feeling his eyes roll back, limbs relaxing until the only point of contact with the outside world is the little pads of contact where the Doc's fingers are touching his head, the only contact that becomes all the contact.

When he opens his eyes again the infirmary takes a moment to shift back into his normal vision, surfaces all angular and inverted, light flashing, and the Doc's standing a few steps back, still smiling that gorram smile. "Come to me if you're still feeling dizzy," he says, not taking his eyes off Jayne as he peels off the gloves he always wears when one of them's on the table.

Jayne sits up, expecting the world to spin, but the Doc stays still, still staring at him, still with that dumb smile, still standing there, pulling the gloves off slowly, finger by finger. Jayne finds himself watching the bones in his wrists move, finds himself remembering the feel of the warming metal cuffs 'round his own wrists, the sharp, necessary ache of them as he wrenched his arms beneath his body and stepped over his own hands. Remembers how they almost became a part of his body, then, terror and regret and stupidity bubbling up and making him wrench against them, the strength burning through his hands enough to crush a jaw, collapse a windpipe.

He thinks on them later, the handcuffs. The Doc's hands held behind him in a manner not dissimilar to his usual polite-society poses, only with the white tunic pulled across his chest this time instead of shiny vest, and his skin blue from the light, eyes wide and black. Hands curled up in the small of his back, Jayne fumbling with the keys, with the tiny, snug-fitting lock. Jayne thinks of the handcuffs.

**Author's Note:**

> http://hopeful-fiction.livejournal.com/39294.html


End file.
